


Lovely Bitter Water

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Injury, Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Back Together, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Injury, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kissing, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, No Sex, No Smut, Not Beta Read, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22810126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: “Bard wandered right through the next town over,” a farmer says, scratching a patchy beard. "You know what folk are like over there. They don’t particularly like Witchers. Hate them, in fact.”Geralt turns his head. The group hasn’t seen him. He made sure to pick a booth in the darkest and furthest corner in the tavern, content to just drink until the sun went down; and then he could get some sleep.But now, ale and sleep are the last things on his mind.“They’ve been trying to get their hands on a Witcher for years,” another farmer joins in, picking at some leftover food on his plate.The first man shrugs, lifting his tankard to his mouth. “If you can’t go about killing an actual Witcher, do the next best thing: kill it’s bed-warmer.”---A prompt-fill of sorts for g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r on tumblr - thank you for the prompt and wonderful gif set used x
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 182
Kudos: 2542
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags. 
> 
> Please. 
> 
> And I can only apologise in advance for what your eyes are about to read.
> 
> This fic is a sort-of prompt fill of [THIS POST](https://g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r.tumblr.com/post/190798042580/so-bear-with-me-apparently-im-crap-at-making). Thank you, g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r , for the inspiration x

Word of it doesn’t even reach _his_ ears. A crowd of farmhands gathered around a neighbouring booth in the tavern talk about it, just loud enough to be heard over the crackle of the fire pit and the dozens of other conversations swirling around him.

Geralt tends not to listen to tavern talk. Most of the time, the gossip is mundane and boring and not of much use to anyone – especially to him. He doesn’t care for whose husband was cuckolded by who, or what the nearest royal family’s scandal is.

But his ears do prick at the mention of a bard; a quite famous bard, one that had ridden with the White Wolf. One of the farmers sniggers into his tankard. “ _Ridden_ in more ways than one, apparently.” It earns a raucous laugh out of the others.

Geralt tries not to crush his own cup with how pale his knuckles turn.

“Bard wandered right through the next town over,” a farmer says, scratching a patchy beard. "You know what folk are like over there, especially when Witchers are concerned.”

Geralt turns his head. The group hasn’t seen him. He made sure to pick a booth in the darkest and furthest corner in the tavern, content to just drink until the sun went down; and then he could get some sleep.

But now, ale and sleep are the last things on his mind.

“They’ve been trying to get their hands on a Witcher for years,” another farmer joins in, picking at some leftover food on his plate.

The first man shrugs, lifting his tankard to his mouth. “If you can’t go about killing an actual Witcher, do the next best thing: kill it’s bed-warmer.”

It’s like he wasn’t there at all. Geralt makes quick work of leaving, making sure not to storm out of the place, leaving as much destruction as he can in his wake. But with a town like that so close, he can’t bring any attention to himself. And tearing up an inn that was more than willing to feed and shelter him for the night isn’t worth doing. But something heavy churns around in his stomach; as if he needs to be sick but can’t.

He half-expects Roach to huff at being pulled away from her freshly bedded stall and full oat bucket. But Roach, the old girl, always seemed to have this connection with her rider. Whatever crossed Geralt’s mind often did the same with her. As soon as he gathers and slips on her tack, and lifts himself up on to her, the mare takes off at a gallop. The main road cuts through fallowed fields. This is crop country: and most of the crop has been taken in for the winter. That, and there are whisperings of Nilfgaard soldiers starting to march further into the continent. People who depend on the land are keen to reap their crops now.

Roach keeps galloping. She lets out an occasional sharp huff and a chesty cough, but even when Geralt tries to slow her down into a more manageable canter, she keeps galloping. She isn’t a filly anymore. Truthfully, Geralt can’t even remember how old the mare is. But despite all of that, she keeps going.

The town is nearer than he thought. It’s a market town, straddling a junction of a crossroads. Getting inside is easy enough, even when one of his hands drifts to the pommel of his sword. He expected someone to be standing guard at the gates. But as Roach slows into a trot as they enter the town, it chills Geralt’s skin to see how empty the streets and houses are. The layout of the town is easy enough to navigate; four main roads running through it, with smaller alleys branching off of them. The roads meet in a large open space: the town’s square. It’s nothing elaborate, mainly lined with market stalls and the fronts of shops.

Roach nickers as she slides into a walk. She shakes her head, distressed by something. Geralt sets his hand against her neck. But he’s just as riled up as her. The blood running through him is hot. The thoughts that flickered through his head on the ride over weren’t kind. It has to be Jaskier – he doesn’t know of any other bards who would journey with Witchers. He doesn’t know of any Witchers who would allow their company to be with a bard.

What in the names of the gods is he doing this far away from the main cities? Was he by himself?

And memories of the mountain all those years ago nip at his nape.

Everyone in the town, and possibly others from somewhere else, gather in the square. A sea, swarming around a single wooden pole in the centre of the square, Geralt can barely make out what people are gathered around. He cranes his neck. Even on his horse, he can’t see much. 

Then he hears it. A sharp crack rips through the air. Quickly followed by a hoarse cry.

The people standing just in front of him jeer. Roach tosses her head, taking a few tentative steps back. The onslaught of noise even makes Geralt wince. He leans forward and swings his leg over Roach’s back, sliding down off of the mare. He lifts a finger. “Stay nearby,” he says stiffly.

Wandering through the crowd is almost like wading into the sea. The back rows have a scattering of people, and they easily part as he stalks through. Mothers grab their children and yank them back to their chests, sheltering them from looking at the Witcher. Geralt swallows a growl. _But they have no problem with them cheering on a whipping_.

Husbands try and shove at him, moving him back from the square. Geralt anchors his feet to the ground, unmoving. When hands slap against his chest, trying to push him back, he doesn’t’ flinch. Wives or lovers or even sisters pull them away, but curse Geralt as he continues past.

The whip cracks through the air. More pained and agonised cries follow.

Geralt’s fists ball by his side. He’ll boil over – he can feel it. It isn’t often that Geralt gets angry. He learned to douse that fire a long time ago, before it ever has a chance to swallow him whole.

But he isn’t angry now: he’s fucking furious.

It isn’t until a guttural yell of _Witcher!_ thunders over the crowd does a hush fall over the entire town.

The rest of the crowd parts, letting him stalk through. A few people spit and hiss as he passes: noise that is blocked out. They aren’t the first to hate his kind. They certainly won’t be the last. But something is boiling his blood, and it isn’t these monsters cursing him.

When the last of the people step to the side, and he sets his sights on what they’ve gathered to watch, Geralt’s hands fist at his sides. It would be easy to draw his sword. It’s what some primal part of him wants to do. It’s been whispering into his ear ever since he and Roach set out from the tavern. But he ran a sword through a town once before, and he promised that he wouldn’t do it again.

But this particular town is really starting to test that promise.

In the centre of the square, there’s a small platform. Rooted in the middle is a pole. A man stands nearby, dressed in black leather garb, a cowl covering some of his face. A whip is coiled in one hand. Droplets of blood splatter on to the ground. Geralt looks at the pole. It is wood, but you could only tell so by the top of it – birchwood that hasn’t been stained red. Crumpled on the ground, hunched over, is a half-naked form. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat.

He clenches his jaw. “I heard that you have something that belongs to me,” he says lowly, lifting his eyes back to the man with the whip.

The man glowers back at him. He spares a quick glance down at the body by his feet. “We were hoping that you would come,” he says a bit too airily.

The body coils in on itself. Shuffling around on the ground, blue eyes suddenly glance up at him. Geralt’s breath is punched out of him. “Jaskier?”

The bard winces as he moves. Geralt tries not to look, but with so much of the ground already wet with blood, how could he not. Long open lashes mar his back. When Jaskier uncoils further, Geralt spots more lines on his chest and stomach. Geralt schools his expression. He could give into the fire. Every fibre of him wants to. But he won’t. He can’t. Rage won’t help him.

The man holding the whip steps forward, and Jaskier flinches. Something flickers through his eyes; and it only feeds the fire brewing inside Geralt. “You’ve been running ragged through our country for too long, Witcher. Surrender to us to stand trial, and we’ll release your harlot back into the wilds.”

The shriek of his unsheathing sword sets the crowd back. One of them, a more well-dressed man, calls out. “The _Butcher of Blaviken_ ,” he snarls. “What now, Witcher? Are you going to cut through another town? Put a blade to women and children?”

A rumble of chatter laps over the crowd.

A small voice grabs his attention, though. “Geralt?”

He looks down. Blue bleary eyes blink up at him. One side of Jaskier’s jaw is purple and swollen. He swallows thickly. “Don’t,” he rasps.

Geralt sets his jaw. A moment passes before he growls, sliding his sword back into its sheath. He stalks forward. The crowd still moves back; but the man, who Geralt has a sneaking suspicion is the mayor, holds firm. Leaning into the man’s space, Geralt growls. “Listen to me, you spineless rat. This shithole of a town is not even on the maps. The Continent won’t care if it loses some of its people: especially if it’s people like you.”

The man lifts his chin. “Word will spread, Witcher,” he says as firmly as he can. But Geralt can hear the slightest of tremor in his voice. “They’ll know you went on another rampage.”

“Word will spread,” Geralt agrees. “They’ll know that you falsely imprisoned and tortured a bard on your own prejudices. And when that word spreads, I imagine it’ll reach the bigger cities: where that very bard once sang in their royals’ courts.”

His hands twitch by his sides, a finger brushing the pommel of his sword.

“I imagine that those particular cities won’t be very happy,” Geralt says lowly, leaning down to speak directly into the man’s ear. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch away. But the creature does tremble slightly. There’s a sharp stench of fear coming off of him. “Your town relies on trading, doesn’t it? Think of what will happen when cities who appreciated my bard’s services will do once they find out what you did to him.”

He keeps his voice low. The mayor keeps his gaze forward, over Geralt’s shoulder.

“Trading lines will avoid your town altogether. Everyone in this rat’s nest of a town will starve,” Geralt snarls. “Most of them will try and move somewhere else; but everywhere in this province seems to appreciate what I have done for them too. So I think your people will have quite a hard time trying to find somewhere else to live.”

People towards the back of the crowd start to slip away. Mostly, it’s mothers and their children. Geralt reaches out, putting a hand on the mayor’s shoulder. He can feel a slight jolt underneath his hand. “You will let me and the bard leave this shithole of a town,” Geralt says, squeezing his hand around the man’s shoulder. “You won’t follow us. You won’t try and find us. You’ll leave us alone. Understood?”

The man’s jaw bulges. But he nods stiffly. The people behind him lower their eyes, soft snarls still pulling at their lips. Hatred won’t leave a place like this: but he can shut it up. They’ll curse his name as soon as he’s gone. It doesn’t bother him. Fuck it, they can try can cast as many stones as they like.

When he turns his back to the man, he waits for the blade. He stalks over to the pole, slipping a knife out of his belt and cutting Jaskier’s arms free. The skin on his wrists is bruised and rubbed raw, but it’s the least of his worries at the minute. Geralt takes a quick glance at the bard’s back.

He unclasps his cloak. Jaskier flinches at the first touch of the cloth against his skin. “It’s alright,” Geralt grunts, holding up his hands. Jaskier’s eyes run all over him. Some soft sight of recognition flickers over his eyes. Geralt wraps as much of his cloak as he can around Jaskier. He tries his best to avoid the wounds, but there’s so many, that it’s hard not to graze one. Jaskier tries to wriggle away, the wool scratching against gaping wounds, but Geralt wraps his arms around him. “Hold on to me, if you can,” he says lowly, helping Jaskier get an arm over the Witcher’s shoulders. Geralt picks him up and whistles sharply. Roach whinnies. People part for the mare. Even those that are too slow to move out of the way, she merely trots straight through, bumping them away with her ears flat against her head.

Roach stands stock-still as Geralt puts Jaskier on her back. The crowd seeps out of the main square, but spit and hiss at him as they pass. Roach snaps her tail. Geralt sets a hand against her neck. “Take us back,” he says quietly, before hoisting himself up on to her. Jaskier slumps back against his chest, his head lolling on to his shoulder. Faint breath huffs against his bared neck. “Stay with me,” Geralt grunts, tightening his hold on Roach’s reins.

The mare wants to run. He can feel it in the way she tugs at her own reins, wanting to gallop back to the tavern. But Geralt knows that the movement will only other Jaskier’s injuries even more. That being said, Geralt sets on putting them as much distance as he can between them and that rat’s nest of a town. For their entire walk back along the main road, he glances over his shoulder. No one follows them. No mounted townsfolk with pickaxes and torches come galloping up the road.

Geralt keeps his arms firm, making sure Jaskier doesn’t slip off of Roach. He’s careful to avoid the bard’s abdomen and chest, but he can feel wetness against his chest. Red still stains his mind. The ground of the town’s square was more blood than gravel. How Jaskier is still alive is a wonder in itself. But peering down at the bard, feeling faint breath struggle out of him, he’ll need to be seen too.

He made sure not to cancel his room with the tavern by the roadside. Though, when he returns, half-handing Roach off to a stableboy, he’s still surprised to see that the room was actually kept for him. Or, more specifically, for Jaskier.

Geralt barely sets foot in the tavern before a woman with greying hair waves them over to a flight of stairs. Geralt vaguely recognises her as the innkeep. “If he’s injured, he’ll need a bed,” she says gravely, watching him carry the bard inside. Jaskier lies in his arms as if he weighed nothing. Curled slightly into Geralt’s chest, his breathing is faint and quick. One of his arms splays out to the side, bobbing with every quick but cautious step that Geralt takes. Streams of blood trickle down along his arm. When one drop drips off of Jaskier’s finger, splattering on to a step of the stairs, Geralt barely swallows a growl.

He wants to turn around and go back to the town.

He wants to light their small, insignificant town on fire.

But what’s coursing through him is hatred, and he’s learned in his many years of wandering the Continent to not act on hatred alone.

The woman’s face tightens. “Do you need a healer, lad?” she rushes up the stairs before Geralt, showing him to the saved room. “A farmer who lives nearby has this daughter – Marta. She went to some fancy school in the capital. She’s the best healer around.”

Geralt sets Jaskier down on to one side of the bed. The bard’s face screws up, a groan wrenching out of his throat. Geralt glances down. His cloak, even though black, is starting to soak red. He looks over to the woman, still standing at the door. “How soon could she be here?” he asks stiffly.

“The house is across the road. She’ll be quick,” the woman says before rushing off down the hall. Distantly, Geralt can hear her barking some orders at another maid to keep an eye on the tavern until she’s back.

Jaskier’s eyes are open and looking around; but they’re clouded and not entirely focusing on anything specific. Geralt tries to unwrap his cloak from the bard. The heavy scent of blood hits him, coating the roof of his mouth. It’s a familiar smell. He’s earned his own fair share of injuries out in the wilds. Too much of his own blood has soaked the ground of the Continent. But this is different. This is _Jaskier_ ’s blood staining his cloak and hands. Geralt sets the cloak to the side. His own pack has salves and potions – all too powerful for a human. All he can do is wait: and he fucking hates it.

The room is warm. A hearth is lit nearby, amply fed with coal and wood. Geralt has half a mind to stoke it, keep the fire going, but he finds himself still at Jaskier’s bedside. Mumbled ramblings leave the bard’s lips. Words barely strung together, not meaning anything at all. Geralt takes a chair from the other side of the room and sets it by the bedside.

Jaskier whimpers, turning his head to the side. His eyes narrow slightly, taking in the somewhat hunched form of the Witcher. “Geralt?” he mumbles.

“It’s me,” Geralt nods, reaching up to push some hair back from Jaskier’s face. For a terrible moment when he first laid eyes on the bard, he didn’t recognise him. His hair has grown long. Some of it is matted from drying blood mixing with dirt. A smattering of a beard covers his jaw. Geralt’s fingers linger in Jaskier’s hair, trying to undo a small knot. Jaskier’s eyelids flicker shut. Underneath his fingers, Geralt can feel how warm Jaskier’s skin is. The whipping didn’t seem to stretch on for long – but Geralt has to wonder if Jaskier was even placed into a cell, with a roof over his head, or left tied in the middle of the square.

He remembers the rainstorm that almost flooded the roads yesterday. Fire returns to his veins.

“Is this a dream?” the words are so faint, Geralt almost doesn’t hear them. Jaskier’s lips barely move as he mumbles them.

Geralt shakes his head. “No, Jaskier. This isn’t a dream.” The room is quiet. There’s a slight wheeze to the bard’s breathing – probably from being out in the cold for so long. Without Geralt’s cloak covering him, Jaskier shakes. Gooseflesh bubbles along his skin. But with every slight movement he does, Jaskier winces and cries out. Geralt glances down to his middle. Lines mar his skin. None too deep, cutting muscle. But the lines aren’t even, and they bleed. Some of them run over each other. Geralt tries rubbing at Jaskier’s arm, trying to heat up his skin. “A healer is on her way. You’ll be fine.”

The innkeep returns with the healer within a few minutes. Both of the women gasp for breath as they scramble into the room. The healer – Marta, Geralt remembers – sets a worn-leather bag down at the foot of the bed. Geralt takes himself and his chair out of the way, letting the woman in to see the extent of the injuries.

But he still stays within an arm’s reach. He’s out of it, teetering on the edge of consciousness: but Geralt won’t have him be alone.

“What happened to him?” Marta frowns.

Geralt folds his arms. “Townspeople in the next town over whipped him.”

Marta rolls her eyes. “Those fuckers,” she grunts. The innkeep still stands by the door, either watching Marta examine the bard or the bard himself. She grimaces at every cut-off groan Jaskier lets out at being touched. She worries her hands together.

Geralt grunts. “There are more cuts on his back.”

Marta gestures. “Turn him on his side.”

Geralt moves to the other side of the bed, kneeling on to the free space. He tries his best to get his arms underneath and around the bard, hoping to whatever gods sit among the clouds that Jaskier won’t be in pain for much longer. But he cries out at being moved. Geralt winces, letting Jaskier bury his face into the hollow of his neck. He can feel wetness against his skin. One of the bard’s arms lands heavily over his shoulder, holding on. It’s been a long time since Geralt was bothered by blood staining his clothes.

Marta clicks her tongue at what she finds. Even with the sun starting to fade outside, she can still make out the wounds. “They aren’t deep,” she says, placing gentled fingers over the ridges of the cuts. “But I’m worried about infection and blood loss.”

Jaskier mumbles something into Geralt’s neck. He turns his head slightly. “What?”

There’s another mumble, but nothing he can make out.

“He’s been talking like this since we left,” Geralt tells Marta.

The woman nods stiffly. “He’s in shock.” She rolls her sleeves up to her elbows. Marta turns to the innkeep. “Could you get me warm water and clean strips of cloth?” The innkeep rushes away. Marta turns back to the bed. Ruffling through her bag, she pulls out clear glass vials and sets them on to the mattress. Even without opening them, Geralt can scent the echinacea in the salves.

She gathers handfuls of a clear gel and bastes most of it over the open wounds along Jaskier’s back. Jaskier’s light hold on him turns tighter. A hoarse groan is buried into Geralt’s neck. Marta clicks her tongue. “It stings, I know.” She says to Jaskier. “But it’ll help kill any infection that might be there.”

Geralt finds some unmarked strip of skin along Jaskier’s back, just underneath his shoulder blade. He sets a hand against it, hoping that some warmth in him will just transfer over. “You’ll be okay,” he says quietly. Whether it’s to him or Jaskier, he isn’t sure.

The innkeep returns with everything Marta asked for. “I have to tend to things downstairs,” she says, wringing her hands together. “Will you be alright up here?”

Marta nods. “We can manage. Thank you, Lora.”

Geralt glances up at the woman. “Thank you,” he says softly.

The innkeep nods firmly.

Marta works silently, coating most of the open wounds with the salve. She tells him about what needs to happen: it’ll have to sit over the cuts for a moment before she can start washing out the cuts. The infection needs to be killed first. As they wait for the salve to dry up slightly, Geralt’s fingers draw patterns along Jaskier’s unmarred skin. After the salve is washed off and the wounds are flushed, Marta picks up a needle and a long string of wire. Glancing up at Geralt, her eyes harden. “This might hurt him,” she says simply, threading the needle.

Jaskier’s arms tighten around him again. He smells of blood and echinacea and sweat. If Jaskier’s usual self was present, Geralt imagines that he wouldn’t be too pleased with the state of his body now. He can almost hear his voice over his shoulder. The Jaskier in his arms, trying to muffle cries and groans into his neck, is so far from the Jaskier he knows.

 _Knew_.

The correction makes him pause. He remembers the mountain. Of course he does. He isn’t going to sit here and say that he doesn’t remember it. It’s not like the words of what he said whisper to him almost every day, reminding him why it is that people believe so firmly that Witchers don’t have emotions.

Marta looks up from her work. “Could you hand me that cloth?”

And they work like that for almost an hour. Most of the cloth is red by the time Marta stands. She wipes her forehead with her arm. Her hands are stained too, but she doesn’t seem bothered by that at all. “I can give him something to help him sleep,” she says, wandering over to a nearby washbasin. “If the bandages seep, change them. The wounds have to be kept dry.”

She glances over her shoulder. “I trust that you can look after all of that?”

Geralt looks down at the bed. He lies on his side, one leg brought up and propped slightly, easing the pressure on his back and stomach. “I can watch him,” Geralt says almost as an afterthought.

Marta hums, wiping the last of the blood and salve from her hands.

The tavern downstairs still breathes. There’s a faint hum of conversation that floats up through the floorboards. Every couple of minutes there’s a chorus of raucous laughter or a shout. A minstrel strikes up a lyre, and people sing along. Geralt’s chest tightens. He takes his chair back to Jaskier’s bedside.

The healer watches out of the corner of her eye. “Is it true, then?” she asks quietly, scrubbing at her hands. “What they say about you and him?”

Geralt sits back in the chair. He’s quiet for a moment. Not answering her is answering her all the same. “What do they say about me and him?”

Marta sighs. “It’s alright. You won’t find much hatred for that sort of thing here,” she says, “despite those fuckers in Falkmor.”

Well, at least he knows what the shithole is called now.

Marta dries her hands, wandering back over to the bed. “I heard a few of his songs, you know.” He never even took in her face. Looking at her now, in the soft light of the hearth and candles dotted throughout the room, she looks far too young to have spent several years at a healer’s school. But he’s heard of incredibly bright people graduating early. It leaves him with the question of why is she back at a roadside village like this. She folds her arms over her chest. “I always wanted to see who the bard’s muse was. I’ve heard of those kinds of ballads before from other bards. They all started to sound the same after a while. But writing songs like those, it takes a special talent.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Geralt grunts, “his head is big enough as it is.”

Marta snorts. She packs away her things, leaving Geralt with vials of nightshades and poppy’s milk: _one is for sleep, the other is for pain. Give him a drop of each, and no more._ When she leaves, he’s struck with how quiet the room turns. It seemed quiet as soon as Jaskier fell asleep. But now, he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

His watch last throughout the night. He changes bandages that either speckle or soak with blood, and feeds Jaskier drops of medicine when he starts to surface, wincing slightly at the pull of stitches.

Jaskier, thankfully, does sleep throughout the night. Geralt nods off every so often, slumped slightly in his chair. But he always catches himself, not wading too far into sleep. The other side of the bed is available, largely untouched by blood or anything else. But he doesn’t want to risk it: rolling over in the night, seeking Jaskier out, and causing him even more pain.

He doesn’t even know if Jaskier will let him lie next to him.

The thought makes him sit up a bit straighter. It chills the fire still licking at his veins.

Geralt will talk to him. When the last of the poppy milk and nightshade has left him, when Jaskier has his mind back again, Geralt will talk to him. About the mountain, about what he’s been doing in the years since their leaving of each other.

He thinks idly about asking Lora to bring up some ale. It won’t do anything, of course. Witchers can’t get drunk: well, drunk enough to forget things. All it’ll bring him is a hazed mind and a loosened tongue.

* * *

The innkeep, Lora, leaves them with two plates of food when the morning comes around. “For when he wakes up,” she explained, casting a quick glance over to the bed where Jaskier still slept. Geralt nods a firm _thanks_ and sets the plates on a nearby table.

Sleep pulls at him. He’s gone longer without it. If his body starts to slow, he’ll just meditate for an hour. But even though sleep reaches out for him, he can’t find it in himself to follow it down. Jaskier’s wounds need to be treated. And he won’t have the bard’s life slip away just because Geralt was _sleeping_.

He wanders over to the window every so often. The room is one of the few ones that look out on to the main road. Vendors pass with wagons laden with wares. Passing soldiers from the capital march through, checking everything is in order.

Geralt’s hands curl into fists. He has half a mind to call out: tell them to go to the next town and look at the square, ask why in the gods’ names townspeople would take out their hatred of a Witcher onto a _bard_. It’s one of his oldest promises – not to meddle in the affairs of men. It’s a promise he made to Vesemir. It’s a Witcher’s promise.

His ears prick at the sound of a soft groan. Looking over his shoulder, Geralt blinks when familiar blue eyes blearily stare back at him. “Geralt?” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt turns. He crosses the room in a matter of strides, sliding back on to his chair. “Are you in pain?” he asks. “There’s some poppy milk here if you need it.”

Jaskier sighs into the pillow. “I’m alright,” he rasps. His voice sounds so strained and cracked. It’s enough to make him wince. Jaskier always drank teas that smelt too sweet and spiced in the name of protecting his voice. Hearing it now only makes Geralt wince.

“Do you want anything to eat? Lora, the innkeep, left a plate of food for you. It’s just bread and stock, but I can ask her for something else if you want-”

Words stop rushing out at him when a soft huff of a laugh leaves Jaskier. “I’m alright,” he repeats. “I’m just tired.”

It’s midday. Or, he thinks it’s midday. He watched the night drag on for what seemed like years, and then suddenly, watery winter morning light finally found its way through the window. How long the sun has been up, he doesn’t know. But with winter now settling over the Continent, days don’t last long – nights come quickly yet drag on for hours. Some part of him wants to keep Jaskier awake. The room is so quiet, he can’t fucking bear it. The tavern breathes underneath him. He kept a fire on, and it’s occasional snapping and hiss breaks the silence every couple of minutes. Lora has been up a handful of times, informing him that his horse is being looked after – even though she _did_ try to kick a stablehand in the shin for walking up to her a bit too quickly.

Jaskier’s eyelids have slipped closed. His breathing has improved. It’s deep now, even. What Geralt remembers from having him sleep an arm’s reach away all those years ago. Jaskier’s eyelids flicker open again. He spends almost a minute just looking at Geralt – at the change of clothes Lora’s husband gladly gave to him while his were being washed, at how he’s almost slumped in the chair. At how dark circles are starting to settle underneath his eyes.

“I thought I was dreaming,” Jaskier says softly. “When I looked up and saw you. I thought you were part of a dream.”

 _Is this a dream?_ he remembers the bard asking, desperately trying to hang on to wakefulness by the tips of his fingers.

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Get some sleep,” Geralt relents, leaning forward to set his elbows on his knees. “I’ll be right here.”

Jaskier’s blink is slow – like a cat warming itself on a cobblestone road during the summer. He tries to stay awake. Geralt recognises the struggle all too well. He tilts his head. “Do you want something to help you sleep? Some nightshade?”

A long, slow sigh leaves Jaskier. Within seconds, sleep has washed over him again. Propped on his side, he’s been in the same position for a long time. It’s to take the strain off of his abdomen and back, but it can’t be comfortable. He’s spent the night mostly uncovered, too. A thin sheet is slung over his waist, mostly there to keep him covered. Whatever clothes had survived being torn off and whipped were soaked in blood and crusting with dirt. What could be saved, Lora took to a nearby woman who can sew. But small beads of sweat dampen his forehead.

Geralt dips a piece of cloth into a basin of clean water. He wrings it out, dabbing it lightly over Jaskier’s forehead. It’ll wrangle the slight fever out of him. It’ll make him stop trembling like a leaf. Ever since the last of shock left Jaskier, he’s just been so tired and cold. Geralt’s fingers brush against his forehead, feeling briefly how warm his skin is. It’s not as bad as the hours before, but still not great. Marta said she’d come back with more salves at some point during the day. Until then, he’s content to just sit here, watching over the bard.

The combination of poppy milk and nightshade in him keeps him under. A soft snore leaves Jaskier every couple of breaths; and it isn’t until then does Geralt realises how much he’s missed Jaskier’s sounds. He missed the incessant chattering on the road, the rhythm of a heartbeat underneath his cheek. Ever since Jaskier left – ever since Geralt _sent him away_ , he corrects himself – it’s been so fucking quiet. Taverns and inns, full of speech and laughter and music doesn’t settle with him. The voices talking don’t belong to Jaskier. A bard making a shoddy rendition of Jaskier’s ballads isn’t _him_.

Geralt shuffles his chair closer. One of Jaskier’s arms is splayed out over the edge of the bed. As gently as he can, though he doubts anything could wake the bard from the concoction of drugs in his system, he moves Jaskier’s arm to rest over one of his thighs.

“I am so sorry,” Geralt says to Jaskier’s sleeping form. “I’m sorry for what I said on that mountain. I was angry and took that anger out on you. And you didn’t deserve that.”

The body doesn’t move much. Jaskier’s back barely lifts with each breath he takes. Half of his face is mashed into his pillow, some strands of hair skewing over his face. One of his hands twitches. As gently as he can, he reaches out: brushing the strands away. Looking at Jaskier now, with long hair and a beard, the bard doesn’t look like himself. He’s pretty sure that he has a tie somewhere for when Jaskier wakes up: if he doesn’t want to cut his hair straight away.

Geralt sighs. “I’m sorry that this has been done to you.” He lets his eyes drift lower. The wounds will heal, and Jaskier will return to being his usual self. But faint white lines will forever mar his skin: all because of Geralt.

The thought of it makes him wince. His own skin is damaged: despite the efforts of potions and oils he’s taking trying to make them fade. But he’s a Witcher. He’s supposed to be scarred. He has a vague image of Eskel in his mind, a terrible scar running over half of the man’s face.

But his bard is different. Someone who regarded their looks so highly will have to wake up to the fact that his skin will be damaged. All because of Geralt.

Geralt sniffs. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

The hand resting on his thigh twitches.

* * *

As Marta cuts and re-sews Jaskier’s stitches, Geralt slips out and walks down to the stables just behind the tavern. Roach nickers, bumping her head into Geralt’s shoulder as soon as he’s close. Geralt gathers her head in his arms, scratching along her cheek. “I’m sorry I haven’t been out to see you,” he says lowly, mindful of stablehands nearby. He glances to her feed bucket: filled for the afternoon, as is her water trough. A hay net hangs from the edge of the stall. He’ll make sure to pay off their extra stay with Lora – and extra for taking care of his horse.

Content that Roach has been fed, watered, and groomed, Geralt wanders back into the tavern. None of the people inside pay him much mind – but he does know that they watch him out of the corner of his mind. Word spreads like wildfire over a dry field.

The maids clearing tables offer him soft greetings. One young girl, Lora’s daughter, asks him how his friend is. The girl barely stands up to his shoulder. Geralt’s usual stony expression softens slightly. “He’s sleeping,” he says simply.

Lora appears from a backroom, shooing the girl away. She gives him an apologetic look before being called to the other side of the tavern.

When he gets back to the room, he finds Jaskier a bit more awake – he’s able to string together sentences that last longer than four words. Marta smiles at his ramblings about something or other. She presses against the dressing, hushing his abrupt yelp. “Oh stop,” she rolls her eyes. “You have enough poppy milk in your blood to knock out a bull.”

Geralt steps into the room. One of the floorboards creaks ever so slightly, giving him away. Marta sets the last of the clean bandages against Jaskier’s wounds. “They still need a couple of more days for the skin to join together again, but I think you’ll be alright to travel after that.”

Geralt stiffens. Glancing down at Jaskier, the bard’s face is unreadable. Marta gathers her stuff and leaves. A silence falls over the room. It’s the first time where Jaskier can look at him, and nightshade doesn’t cloud his eyes. Pain is still being tempered by poppy milk, but he’s sure that the bard will be able to stay awake.

“I can take you wherever you want,” Geralt fits in quickly and firmly. “If you need to get somewhere safe, I can get you there. The capital is a couple of days of a ride away from here, but it has main roads that lead back to the centre of the Continent.” Geralt rubs the back of his neck.

A quiet moment settles over the both of them. It’s one that he’s desperate to fill with words. The silence isn’t entirely comfortable.

“I was on my own when they captured me,” Jaskier says slowly. He looks off to a corner of the room, looking at nothing in particular. Geralt can see how his jaw tightens slightly.

Geralt winces. He doesn’t want to think about it. Terrible things have whispered to him throughout the night – thoughts about the bard being attacked and dragged away from the road. Did they know who he was straight away?

But he flinches at his hand being caught. “I heard you last night,” Jaskier mumbles. “When you apologised for the mountain: I heard you.”

Geralt stares down at their joined hands. Jaskier’s hold is slightly limp, muscles loose from opiates and nightshade potions. But he makes a go of squeezing Geralt’s hand. “I want us to talk about it,” he says after a time. “But I don’t think now is a good time.”

Geralt nods. A lump claws up his throat, trying to lodge and block words coming out.

Jaskier frowns. “Did you sleep on that chair?” he nods blearily to the item of furniture.

Geralt blinks. “Yes? Well, no. I sat in the chair. All night. I didn’t sleep.”

Jaskier sighs and waves his hand tiredly. “That won’t do.” He gestures vaguely to the other side of the bed. “Get some sleep. I won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

The comment sits with him for a moment. But watching Jaskier drift back down into sleep with a long and drawn-out sigh, his body twitches. He sits down in his chair, taking up his post again for the next few hours while Jaskier sleeps off the last few drops of the potions.

He doesn’t deserve Jaskier’s forgiveness. All the bard ever had for him was goodness. He was a companion when others didn’t so much as glance in his direction – and when they did, it was with so much disdain and revulsion that he just ended up thickening his skin. He made his life a lot easier in the grand scheme of things. Jobs fell into his lap, threw at him by those very people who once hated him, and now revered him for what he would be able to do to help.

He owes Jaskier a lot: more than he can ever repay.

And he had the nerve to take the bard’s heart and throw it off of that mountain.

* * *

It’s another two days before Marta assures them both that Jaskier can sit up without doing a great deal of damage to himself.

“Thank the fucking gods,” Jaskier sighs under his breath. “I can draw the left side of the room from memory.”

The movements pull at the stitches, and Geralt catches every time the bard winces, but eventually, he’s able to help Jaskier back on to a soft mound of pillows pushed up against the headboard of the bed. With the bard propped up, he takes a second to take a quick surveying glance around the room. His clothes – re-sewn and washed – hang on the back of a nearby chair. A couple of empty glass vials sit on the desk.

Marta takes one last look at Jaskier’s wounds. “The stitches can come out tomorrow if the healed skin is strong enough,” she says, binding the bandages to Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier offers a small smile. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”

Marta shrugs a shoulder. “You aren’t the first victim of Falkmor I’ve treated,” she says with a slight tightness to her voice.

Geralt watches from the other side of the room, arms folded tightly over his chest. He lifts his chin. “Has the capital ever done anything about them?”

Marta washes and dries her hands. She bites her lip. “It’s an important town for trade, sitting on an important junction. The capital has given all of the warnings it can give, but ultimately it can’t do anything. What _can_ they do? Send in their soldiers and upend the place?”

Jaskier glances over to Geralt. A small frown shadows his face. Words that Geralt hissed into a man’s face still come to him like afterimages. They’re in Geralt’s mind too. Rage like it doesn’t just fade away. Even almost three days later, he has to catch himself from marching back to the town and lighting the place on fire.

Marta packs up the last of her things, offering both of them a small smile before leaving. Geralt locks the door behind her. A plate of food sits on the nearby table. Lora has brought up something for Jaskier at every meal of the day – regardless of whether or not the bard is actually awake for it or not.

Geralt brings it over, handing it to Jaskier. He fights the urge to snatch his hand back when their fingers briefly brush.

It’s nothing substantial: a bone broth and a slice of bread. But it’s enough to keep his energy up. Jaskier picks at the bread, tearing it into manageable pieces. “You said that you would bring me somewhere,” he says suddenly, looking up from his food. “What did you mean by that?”

Geralt’s hands fidget by his side. “I meant that if you need to go somewhere, I can bring you there.” He tilts his head slightly. “There aren’t many other ways I can say it.”

A heavy silence falls over them for a moment. “And if I did,” Jaskier fiddles with the bread, dipping some of it into the broth, “and you... _escorted_ me...there, what would you do once I was settled?”

“That’s up to you.”

Jaskier stares at him for a minute. “That’s up to me,” he repeats, mulling the words over.

“If you wanted me to go, I would go.”

“Why would I want you to go?”

“I imagined that,” Geralt takes in a steady breath, “that you wouldn’t want to be in my presence after...”

Jaskier nods to the edge of the bed. “Sit.”

Geralt’s feet act before his brain can catch up. He crosses back through the room in a matter of strides, perching down on the edge of the bed. Jaskier takes a couple more bites of food before setting it on to the bedside table. A small grimace flashes over his face, but Jaskier quickly schools it away. “I’m adequately sober from Marta’s potions,” he says, sitting back into the mound of pillows with a small sigh. “So I think we should talk now.”

And Geralt has faced all sorts of creatures that would have frightened him at one point. He was afraid of Kaer Morhen as it towered over him when he barely stood as high as Vesemir’s chest. He was afraid of the first time he was led into a room by people with leather aprons and metal tools. He was afraid every single time he faced off against a new monster in the flesh: it was so much different than reading about them. But he eventually learned to temper that fear. Or get rid of it entirely.

But now, his hands shake: and he can’t make them stop.

Jaskier bites his lip. “I heard you before,” he says after a time. “When you said that you were sorry for what happened on the mountain. I told myself, when I reached the foot of it, that if you came down after me, I would let it go. I knew you could get angry and fed up with things: and that entire dragon hunt was one shit show after another. I knew what you could be like when you were annoyed. You say things that you don’t mean. But the way you looked at me...” A wince flashes over Jaskier’s face. “I wanted to believe that you would come down after me. But I kept walking, and by the time I hit the next village, and saw no sign of you, I knew that you weren’t just being angry. You must have meant what you said.”

Geralt lowers his gaze. He can’t hold Jaskier’s eyes while he speaks. His words hit harder than any whip.

Jaskier sniffs. “But I heard you apologise. And I don’t know whether it was the nightshade or the poppy milk, or whether it was something else entirely, but I heard how sad you sounded.” Their hands barely brush against the top of the sheets. The bard has this otherworldly ability to make him gravitate towards him, wherever they are. Geralt looks down at their hands. Both of the tips of their little fingers hover close to each other. “I tried to stay awake, but whatever Marta gave me was too much. But when I slept, I had dreams about you. I’ve always had dreams about you, one way or another. Whether they were memories of what we used to be, or fantasies I had about tracking you down and beating you with your own sword.”

Geralt huffs a breath. It’s not an entire laugh, but not a sigh either. When he looks up, he swallows. Jaskier’s eyes are red, with tears brimming, threatening to fall. “I heard you and you sounded so _sad_. And I knew that I heard that before, because that was me. I knew then that maybe you really were sorry.”

His voice trembles. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” Geralt breathes. He gestures to the wraps holding Jaskier’s skin together. “I’ve caused you so much pain and torment. How could you ever forgive me?”

The bard tilts his head back, blinking. A tear escapes, streaming down his face. He loosens a harsh sigh. “Because some part of me is just as stubborn as you are: and it keeps reminding me that I still love you.”

And it does nothing to stop his heart from hammering in his chest. It might just break through his ribcage and fall on to the mattress with them. He does loosen a breath though, one he didn’t even know that he was holding.

He flinches at warmth spreading on one side of his face. Jaskier’s hand cups his cheek, his thumb gently brushing over the arch of his cheekbone. Geralt’s eyelids flicker shut. Memories come to him like afterimages – their old life together just an arm’s reach away, blurred from the years of separation. Jaskier sighs. “I thought that you hated me,” he mutters, “I thought that you had always hated me. But when I looked up and saw you standing there, facing down a village for _me_...”

“I never hated you,” Geralt breathes.

Jaskier’s lips flatten into a thin line. “I know that now,” he amends.

It’s only then does Geralt realise how close he’s sitting to the other man. He could have perched at the end of the bed, or a bit further down. But he’s close – Jaskier was able to reach for him so easily. His eyes flicker down to the bard’s mouth. Seeing him with a beard is still so odd. He imagines that he’ll want it gone, as well as his hair tidied, before they set off.

 _Together_? The question floats aimlessly around Geralt’s mind. He doesn’t want to hope. Hope is so fleeting in the world nowadays that he doesn’t want to put stock in it.

His brain and the rest of his body aren’t connected. Before he knows truly what he’s doing, he leans forward, setting his forehead against Jaskier’s. He doesn’t put much into it. If Jaskier wants to lean back, separating them, he can. But he doesn’t. A sigh leaves the bard. Moving slightly, their noses brush. A shared breath swirls between them.

It’s him who leans forward. The first touch of their lips sends him back to those years before the mountain: the days spent wandering through villages and towns, following contracts; the nights curled around each other in the beds of taverns.

A groan crawls up his throat when Jaskier kisses back, tilting his head slightly. The hand against Geralt’s cheek holds there. His thumb moving in a gentle caress.

He wants to do more: he wants to reach for Jaskier’s legs, pull him closer, and mould him around himself. He wants to lean over and shield Jaskier entirely from the outside world. He wants to pepper nicks and bruises into the length of the bard’s neck. He wants to rediscover all of the freckles speckled throughout his skin, scattered over his entire body.

But a sharp hiss from Jaskier reminds him that the bard is injured. Geralt pulls away, but keeps their foreheads touching, noses brushing against each other. He puts some space between their chests. The harsh, sharp medicinal scent of echinacea and herbs that coat Jaskier’s cuts floats up towards him.

Geralt reaches out, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s long hair. He tucks some of it behind his ear. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he repeats, his voice nothing more than a rumble.

Jaskier brushes their noses together. “My forgiveness is mine to give. And I give it to you.”

Jaskier catches his lips again. Gods, it’s so familiar. Like the years that separated him didn’t even happen. The scratch of a beard against his own is different, but Jaskier sometimes had stubble in the mornings he rose a little too late.

When another muffled gasp leaves the bard, when one of them leans a bit too close to the other, Geralt pulls away again. “We’ll leave when Marta says that you’re able for the road,” Geralt promises. “We can go wherever you like. Together.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier weather the winter at Kaer Morhen. 
> 
> Alternatively; What do you get when you cross a traumatised bard and an emotionally-stunted Witcher? It's not a joke or anything. It's this chapter. Seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have been updated. Please read those before continuing. 
> 
> Ya'll ready to deal with some Trauma™? 
> 
> Updated tags: PTSD, Trauma, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Panic Attacks, Body Image Issues.

By the time Jaskier is deemed well enough to travel, it’s almost two weeks later. Rumours have spread like wildfire. Geralt hears whispers of them any time he ventures outside of the bard’s – _their_ – room to tend to Roach or to grab some food for themselves. As soon as he steps into the main room of the tavern, those gathered around tables and by the fire pit drop their heads, and the voices lapse into silence.

It’s a small town. And with some shithole like Falkmor sitting so close to it, he has to wonder if they’re the first victims of the town’s brutality that haven’t fled the kingdom yet. Or set the place on fire. And by the names of all of the gods, Geralt wants to. Even though healed, Jaskier still grimaces and inhales sharply when he bends down or moves too quickly. It’ll take time for his muscles to soften. Any time those pained noises sound, Geralt’s ears prick, and a fire starts boiling his blood.

Roach is itching to leave. When he approaches the stables, the mare throws her head back and whinnies. She’s been pawing at the ground lately, threatening to loosen a shoe, or even lose it completely. He’s been able to take her for short rides around the village and up and down the road for longer canters, but she wants to go.

And Geralt can’t help but agree with her.

He settles her saddle on to her back and does up her girth. Giving her neck a quick pat, Geralt glances out on to the stable yard. Jaskier said he would grab the last of their provisions from their room before joining him. He tried to advise against it; he doesn’t want Jaskier moving more than he needs to, or carrying more than he should. But all of his pesterings had been brushed off with a wave of the bard’s hand.

The mare nudges his shoulder. Geralt scratches her withers. “We’ll get going soon,” he assures her.

When he spots Jaskier walking over to the stable, he blinks at the sight of Lora carrying two large packs of food in her arms. A small blush sits over the bridge of Jaskier’s nose – one he’ll blame on the cold – but Geralt can hear the small, hushed conversation both he and Lora are trying to have on their walk over.

“These are for the both of you,” Lora says, handing Geralt both of the linen-wrapped parcels, “it’s the least I could do.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “You’ve done plenty for us already,” he says. “I’m alive because of you.”

Lora shakes her head, setting her hands on her hips. “Just take the damn food, the both of you,” she sighs, reaching out to skim her fingers on Roach’s muzzle. The mare doesn’t lurch her head back like she usually would. Then again, Geralt supposes that they’ve all been here for so long; Roach must have come to know Lora and the stablehands that are around.

Still, Geralt nods his thanks and stores the packs on to Roach’s saddle. When he turns back around, he sees Lora bring Jaskier into a hug – a light one, with her arms just crossed over the bard’s back instead of holding on. She’s still mindful of the injuries there, even though from all that Geralt could see, the worst of it has healed over just fine.

“Take care of yourselves,” Lora whispers, glancing over to Geralt. “The winter won’t be long coming in.”

Geralt hums. Jaskier is better at saying goodbye to those who were nice enough to house and feed them in their past lives. It’s something he’s still good at. Geralt stands by and watches the bard assure the innkeep that they’ll be alright; they’ll outrun any cold, nipping winds for favour of somewhere warm and quaint.

“Where would you like to go?” Geralt asks him, turning to Roach.

Jaskier presses his lips into a thin line. “Oh, I don’t know. Nowhere is particularly appealing,” he says softly, scratching the mare’s muzzle. Geralt can feel his eyes on him. When he speaks again, his voice is impossibly quieter. “Winter is coming in. Do you have anywhere to go?”

Geralt cinches Roach’s girth, buckling it up before checking on their rations again. He’s been restless, that’s fair. He’s spent the last few days pacing around a small room above an inn, wanting to stay with the man who let him back into his life. Some primal side of him wanted to return home: to weather out the winter with his own kind like he’s always done. And those two sides of him have been at war with each other, pulling his mind and body all over.

Geralt sighs. “It’s a long journey to Kaer Morhen,” he says quietly, glancing around the barn. “One I don’t think will suit your injuries.” His voice is low, barely a murmur. Some sort of feeling has been nipping the back of his neck recently. Even if everyone in this village knows that they’re here, he doesn’t want them knowing where they’re going.

Word spreads like wildfire. And he doesn’t want anyone from Falkmor picking up on their scent. He’d quite like to leave the shithole town where it is – on the edge of nowhere.

When Jaskier moves closer to him, he has to stop himself from reaching out. He won’t. Jaskier needs to reach for him first. It doesn’t stop his fingers from twitching where they rest on Roach’s side though. “I’m sure you’ll make sure I’m alright,” Jaskier says after a quiet moment. When Geralt looks at him, the bard’s eyes are soft but serious.

He would willingly walk up a mountain, to a Witchers’ holding, with the injuries that he has.

Geralt sucks in a breath. “I wouldn’t mind going to Oxenfurt,” he tries, turning back to check on Roach’s tack. Again.

His ears twitch at the sound of Jaskier clicking his tongue. “You’ll hate being cooped up in the city,” the bard says simply, “you won’t last a week.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow; but he has to agree. The thought of waiting out an entire season, particularly one as harsh as this winter is promising to be, within the high walls of Oxenfurt, well, it sours his stomach. But he’ll do it for Jaskier, because he doesn’t want the bard to stumble halfway up the Kaedwen valley. The trail would be hard for him even if he weren’t injured.

He blinks as a hand settles on his forearm. Jaskier stands close. Close enough that Geralt smells the faint wisps of arnica from his wounds, and the soft smell of oils he bathed in last night. “You need to go home, don’t you?” Jaskier asks softly.

Geralt doesn’t look at him. But he sets his jaw.

It seems to be enough for an answer. Jaskier nods. “Let’s go to Kaer Morhen, then.”

The hand on his arm doesn’t move, but Jaskier’s finger curl into the fabric of his sleeve. There are small cuts and scrapes starting to scab over; small injuries from fighting off whoever it was that caught him for Falkmor. Geralt tries not to wince. Even thinking of the town’s name sours his mouth.

There’s warmth against his side. Jaskier presses himself against Geralt, leaning up to press a kiss to the ridge of his jaw. “You’ll make sure I’m alright,” Jaskier offers him a small smile, only that barely curls the corners of his lip.

* * *

Jaskier spends most of their journey on Roach, with Geralt walking. The mare could carry the both of them with no problem; she has in the past. But his mind wanders to the bard’s back, how it’s still tender and sore, and he doesn’t want to cause Jaskier any additional pain. He tries not to listen to the muffled sharp intakes of breath whenever the wind changes or if Roach stumbles a step on the road.

But despite them travelling slower than usual, they reach the end of the mountain with some days left to spare before the worst of the winter is to set in. The countryside is grey and bare, with every crop harvested and animal put into shelter for the season.

When they start walking up the path, Jaskier offers to hop down from Roach. “To give the old girl a break,” he says with a faint smile. The mare’s ears flatten – at the remark of being called _old_ – but she settles when Jaskier sets a hand on to her neck, his fingers scratching.

The path is well-worn. Geralt spots fresh hoof prints in the soil. _Eskel and Lambert_. A small smile threatens to pull at his lips. He hasn’t heard from or seen his brothers all year. Even with the Continent being as sprawling as it is, their paths usually cross one way or the other.

They’re halfway up when Geralt’s blood chills. At a particularly biting wind, the bard groans. Geralt’s head almost snaps off with how quickly he turns to look over his shoulder. Jaskier is bundled close behind him, practically on his heels, sheltered from the worst of the winds by Roach who pads along beside the two of them. The mare doesn’t seem to mind the wind that much; her winter coat has settled in.

Jaskier’s eyes flicker up to meet his. “I’m fine,” he says stiffly before anything can leave Geralt’s mouth. He stares at the Witcher until Geralt turns back around. He can still feel the bard walking behind him; the sure, steady sound of footsteps. But it still doesn’t stop his hand from going back and catching one of Jaskier’s. He pulls the bard closer to him, shielding him from the worst of the wind. Jaskier regards him for a moment before settling into his side, walking pace for pace up the rest of the path until the keep’s high walls come into view.

* * *

Two Witchers meet them at the gates. One with hair the colour of fire, the other with a scarred face. Jaskier blanches as, as soon as Geralt steps foot into the courtyard, both Witchers haul him into a tight embrace. He’s pretty sure that Geralt’s feet even leave the ground.

The red-haired Witcher, the younger of them, is the first to talk. “Our _White Wolf_ has returned!” he laughs, clasping Geralt’s shoulders in his hands. They catch up quickly, explaining where each of them have been and what they’ve been doing.

Jaskier fumbles with the sleeves of his coat, pulling the fabric over his fists. Watching Geralt with his brothers, it’s warming. Having the Witcher be among his own kind was either going to be his blessing or curse for the winter. But watching them now, Jaskier knows that the days will pass quickly.

The three of them are interrupted by a sharp clearing of a throat. “Geralt,” an older man says, walking over to the group.

Geralt inclines his head slightly. “Vesemir,” he says.

The older man offers him a tight smile. “Good to see you home,” he says. Vesemir’s amber eyes go over the Witcher’s shoulder, landing on Jaskier. “And who’s this?”

Geralt turns and beckons Jaskier forward. “This is Jaskier,” he says. “He’ll be my charge for the winter.”

Vesemir’s gaze seems to burn straight through him. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees that the two other Witchers regard him too. Vesemir eventually nods. “The eastern walls need new mortar,” he says gruffly, folding his arms across his chest. “And the stones need to be re-pointed.”

“Yes, Vesemir,” the two other Witchers reply, wandering towards a forge to the other side of the courtyard.

“I’ll go out once Jaskier is settled.” Geralt’s fingers entwine around his. Warmth floods through his blood at the touch. Vesemir nods, mumbling something under his breath. But a shrill breeze that creeps in through the cracks in the walls blows the words away.

Kaer Morhen is both everything he expected it to be and nothing like it at all. He imagined a castle hidden in the hills, with thick cloud and fog cloaked around it, shielding it from prying eyes. And that’s what he finds. They’re high up in the Kaedwen Mountains, too far away from the kingdoms or their monarchs. The last sign of life they saw was the village at the foot of the mountain.

But he also expected it to be a ruin. Geralt told him how much his guild had suffered. New Witchers hadn’t been made in years. And without them, their keeps were falling into disarray. But he glances around the courtyard. Kaer Morhen’s walls are sturdy and high, and the keep itself looks brand new.

If Vesemir has them work during their winter stay, then he can assume most of the upkeep is managed by the three younger Witchers. He wonders vaguely if he’ll be asked to do something too. He’s hardly getting to stay within Kaer Morhen, free of charge.

Geralt leads them through hallways and up spiral, stone staircases until they eventually reach a bedroom on one of the higher levels to the castle. Before Geralt can even tell him, he knows that this is the Witcher’s room. It smells like him; like pine trees and musk. Jaskier glances around. Bookshelves are stacked with leather-bound tomes, a handful of carved wooden figures in between the gaps of books. The room is simple enough. A bed, a desk and chair, a fireplace. Everything that they would have needed, nothing more. But in the time Geralt has lived in the space, he’s made it his own. The figures catch his eye as he wanders over, reaching out for a reddish carving of a horse. Jaskier smiles.

“A farmer’s daughter gave that to me,” Geralt says, setting his swords and bags down by the foot of the bed. “I dealt with a drowner nest for him. He paid me in gold.”

“And she gave this to you as a gift?” Jaskier rubs his thumb over the horse’s face. The figure is crudely etched, but it’s enough of a likeness of Roach as he’s ever seen. “That’s sweet.”

He sets the figure down and reads the spines of the books. They’re all to do with monster studies. Some of their titles are too faded for him to read, but he makes out a few. “There’s quite a lot of theory involved with monster hunting,” he comments.

Geralt hums. Jaskier’s ears prick at the sound of footsteps. He turns in time to see Geralt wandering over. He's slow with his movements; as if he were approaching a startled horse. He’s been doing it ever since Jaskier first got back on to his feet. He can’t so much as climb a staircase without Geralt’s arms being around him – but never touching.

It’s been souring his mouth for nearly two weeks.

Before Geralt can get closer, Jaskier sets the small of his back against the desk, leaning back against it. “Don’t you have work to do?” he says with a light smile. Without it, he’s sure the Witcher wouldn’t like his words.

Geralt sighs, tilting his head back. As if the weight of the whole world sat on his shoulders. “I’d prefer staying up here with you,” he says simply, reaching out for Jaskier’s hand. That, the bard learned, he has no problem with reaching for. When they wake in the morning, their hands are always joined in the space between them. Jaskier looks down as Geralt takes both of his hands in his and brings them to his lips. A tremble threatens to shake through his body.

Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hands. “I’ll be fine,” he says softly. “I can unpack bags by myself.”

Geralt’s lips linger on the backs of his hands for a moment. A soft frown etches into his brow. “Everything okay?” he asks, letting their hands drop.

Jaskier nods. “Yeah, I’m just tired.” He reaches out, setting his hand against Geralt’s chest. A steady heartbeat thumps underneath his palm. He gives Geralt a small nudge. “Go. Vesemir will have your head if you aren’t down by the walls soon.”

When Geralt leaves, and the door shuts behind him, Jaskier’s shoulders drop. A breath leaves him, one that he didn’t even know that he was holding.

His hands tremble by his side. He reaches for one of his bags. When he bends over, a ripple of pain runs up his back, stealing his breath. His hand goes out to grasp and hold on to one of the bedposts.

It’s always there. The pain. It’s the one thing that still reminds him of what happened.

And he’d really prefer not to remember at all.

His sleep has been plagued with memories. Waking in the middle of the night, he’ll seek out Geralt’s hand, holding on to the Witcher that bit tighter to assure himself that he’s safe, he’s okay, and that he _isn’t back there_.

When the pain begins to ebb, he straightens. There’s still a thrum running across the middle of his back, but it’s something he can ignore. 

* * *

Sleep hasn’t been a friend of his for some years. When he does slip under, more often than not with the help of poppy’s milk or nightshade or even one too many tankards of ale, he’s trapped with voices and images and memories that are just too strong to shake.

Before Falkmor, words spoken on a mountain used to echo around his skull. He could still see Geralt’s face; how angry the Witcher looked as he made to grab Jaskier’s heart and throw it off the mountain’s edge.

And then all that occupied his sleep was Falkmor. The brigands who had dragged him from the road. The thin, faux-posh voice of the mayor who paid silver to have him tied to a post. The hooded man who wielded a whip—

Jaskier blinks awake. When he can wake up, it’s like now. Sweat beaded across his forehead, breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he can’t place himself. His surroundings are different; grey stone walls, a four-poster bed, howling wind outside tall, lancet windows. It’s not the inn.

He looks to the other side of the bed. Golden eyes stare back at him. “You’re safe,” Geralt’s voice is nothing more than a soft rumble, like thunder in far off hills.

Fingertips run along the side of Jaskier’s face. “You’re in Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says slowly, “it’s the start of winter.” He holds Jaskier’s eyes.

And it settles him, being told things that he should know. Things that some logical, sensible side of him knows. Memories come back of him walking with Geralt to the keep, of arriving here and settling down for the winter ahead.

But some other part of him is still poisoning him. His hand shakes as it catches Geralt’s wrist. Underneath his fingers, he feels a steady pulse. Geralt’s fingers still where they are, resting just against the hollow of his cheek.

The Witcher’s face is unreadable. “Do you want me to stop?”

Jaskier bites his lip, shaking his head. His throat clenches at how much he wants to cry. Tears are brimming his eyes and threaten to fall. Geralt must see them. He must hear how little noises fight out of Jaskier’s throat, despite how hard he tries to swallow them.

When Jaskier lets go of his hand, Geralt cards his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “I’m here,” he mumbles. “You’re alright.”

Jaskier’s eyelids slip shut. It’s familiar, this. Lying across from each other, just touching. It’s what he’s gone so long without. He remembers their kiss, after Geralt’s apology. He remembers how _familiar_ the Witcher’s lips felt against his. How he wanted to throw an arm around Geralt’s shoulders and drag him down on to the bed with him. His stitches could have ripped, and he wouldn’t have cared at all.

But something whispers in the back of his mind. Something that has been nipping at his neck since leaving the inn and setting out on to the road. Something that won’t just _fuck off_ no matter how softly Geralt touches him, or assures him that he’ll chase anything horrible away.

He can’t remember falling back asleep. But the next time he opens his eyes, watery morning light streams in through the windows, reaching for the posts at the end of the bed. Jaskier blinks. The other side of the bed is empty. He reaches out, running a hand over the mattress. It’s cold.

* * *

Jaskier can smell dinner before he can see it. Stepping into the dining hall, he sees Vesemir setting the last of the serving trays on to the table. A meal of seasoned meat, roasted vegetables, brown gravy, and bottles of wine and mead sit stretched out. A pack of wolves are already seated around the table, knives in hand and ready to tear into it.

His seat is beside Geralt’s, a plate and cutlery already lain out for him. When he settles into his seat, he blinks at a light kiss being placed to the arch of his cheekbone. “Are you alright?” Geralt rumbles, missing the call from Vesemir to tuck in. Over the Witcher’s shoulder, Jaskier spots Eskel and Lambert loading their plates high with as much food as they can fight from each other.

Jaskier offers him a small smile. “I’m alright,” he says, albeit a bit tightly. It doesn’t seem to sit with the Witcher because, for too long of a moment, Geralt hold his eye. Jaskier turns to the food. “Thank you for all of this, Vesemir,” he says airily, “you’re too kind.”

The eldest Witcher hums. “You’re welcome, bard.” He sends a harrowing glare down to the other end of the table. “Good to know someone within this keep knows manners and doesn’t act like an animal.”

A pair of _thank you Vesemir_ s comes out of full mouths. Vesemir sighs.

Jaskier can still feel Geralt’s eyes bearing into the side of his face. He reaches for slices of roasted meat – venison from the valley, if he’s to guess – and some vegetables. Geralt eventually relents, after a time. But by then, Jaskier’s heart has already started to hammer against his chest. He fears that if it got any stronger, it could burst out and land on the table in front of him.

He’s sure the others around the table – Geralt included – can hear it. Geralt has always been able to tell if Jaskier is awake in the mornings, just by the change of his breathing.

And that fact only makes his heart beat faster.

Vesemir sits at the head of the table, with his pack and Jaskier around him. He makes idly conversation with the Witchers, asking if the jobs he set for them have been done. He asks about jobs that they’ve taken over the season.

Lambert talks at length about going into a nekker nest by himself – even shrugging off a harsh glare from Vesemir, because _who_ would go into a nekker nest by _themselves_.

“Idiots, that’s who,” Eskel mutters under his breath, and dodges an elbow to the side.

To Jaskier’s relief, the scenes playing out in front of him, the conversations that surround him, they distract. His heart calms after a while; but his throat still tightens when a particular stretch of silence stretches out for too long.

The food doesn’t last long. Plates are scraped clean and wine decanters are emptied, with every piece of venison meat stripped from the bones. When Jaskier’s finished his own plate, he feels a hand brush against his thigh beneath the table. He glances down. Geralt sets his hand against his thigh, palm facing upwards and fingers splayed.

Jaskier blinks. The Witcher isn’t looking at him. Instead, laughing lightly at Eskel and Lambert launching into an argument about something or other. But his hand stays.

Jaskier’s fingers twitch. He wants to. By all the gods and goddesses above, he _wants_ to curl his hand into Geralt’s. But his hand won’t budge.

After a time, Geralt’s hand slips away.

* * *

The keep sits on top of a natural spring, Geralt told him once. Steam crawling up the walls means that the keep above rarely ever gets cold. Though, despite that, Jaskier found that most of the rooms have large stone hearths, with stacks of wooden blocks nearby to keep fires going. It’s a welcomed warmth from the outside chill. He almost forgets the snow falling outside, how it’s starting to stack up and pile against the walls outside.

In one of the lowest levels of the castle is a room similar to a Temerian bathhouse. Thick stone pillars and ornately carved, vaulted arches hold up the rocky roof. Faint flecks of paint still cling to the stone. He can imagine, in earlier years, the room would have been adorned with colour. The bath itself is one large pool, with smaller ones branching off with stone benches lining the edges of each.

“Teachers were only allowed the use the baths,” Geralt tells him, leading him down to the water’s edge. Even in one of Geralt’s shirts and his breeches, he feels too warm. Geralt shrugs. “But those days are over now. Vesemir couldn’t justify having all of this to himself, so he let us have at it too.”

Jaskier can’t help but smirk. “I’m sure you made great use of it. Were any of you cleaner when you got out of these baths, or...?”

Geralt has the gall to look affronted. But the ghost of a smile is there. 

The smell of salts and oils coats the roof of his mouth. He almost gags with how thick the air is. He looks down at the water’s edge. The water itself is slightly murky, but he knows that it’s just the minerals from the rocks around the castle. He’s had a fair share of soaks in bathhouses in Temeria, each of them being a transcending experience. He imagines that the water here is the very same.

But—

He squeezes Geralt’s hand. “Could a bath be brought up to our room?”

A small frown etches into Geralt’s brow, but he nods. “Of course, whatever you want.”

Jaskier offers him a small smile. “Thank you.” He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him as he slips away, folding his arms tightly over his chest as he starts back up towards the main castle. His ears strain, to hear if the Witcher follows. He doesn’t.

* * *

Eyes are on him the second he steps out into the courtyard. He’s learned that the Witchers have a routine, and they stick to it. In the mornings, they slip out before the sun can rise to do whatever jobs Vesemir needs doing. The walls have new mortar and their stones are re-pointed and firm. Even the stables have had some planks of wood replaced and sanded. In the afternoons, Jaskier’s ears twitch at the sound of metal screeching against metal. The Witchers train. Jaskier isn’t surprise. They’re out of work for an entire season. Months on end, not spent on the roads or hunting down monsters. Their skills will weaken if they don’t keep on top of them.

Jaskier shuffles past the outdoor arena; a dirt square with faint markings around the edges, mapping it out. Geralt and Lambert are sparring, trying to land hits on the other. Eskel leans against the outside of the forge, arms folded across his chest and a small smile skirted across his face.

Jaskier’s eyes linger on the Witcher’s scars. They take up half of his face; but they don’t seem to bother the man at all.

He stuffs his hands back into the pockets of his jacket and keeps walking.

The stables are to the back of the keep. There’s ample space for the Witchers’ horses, with fenced paddocks just outside for them to graze in if the weather allows it. As he approaches, he can’t help the small smile on his face when he hears a familiar whinny.

Roach’s head pops out of her stall, ears pricked as Jaskier approaches. “Hello, my darling,” Jaskier coos, catching her chin and scratching along her stripe. He thinks back on the time where, if he wandered too close, she kicked out – always aiming for his shins. He remembers the coy smirk that always plagued Geralt’s face whenever Jaskier complained that his horse tried to cripple him.

Where their relationship changed, he has no idea. But he’s sure it had something to do with the ample amount of apples and strawberries he often snuck her.

Jaskier reaches up to scratch behind her ears, laughing lightly when she arches her head, helping to find a particular spot.

“She lets you at her ears?”

Jaskier almost jumps at the voice. He looks over to see Vesemir stepping out of a nearby stable, pitchfork in hand. Jaskier swallows. “Yeah,” he answers, continuing to scratch the mare.

The elder stares at Roach. “Damn cow,” Vesemir grunts, “she won’t let me near her. Nearly bit a bloody finger off when I tried to get her out to muck her stall.”

 _She’s Geralt’s horse,_ Jaskier thinks. “Do you want me to help?” he says instead, petting Roach’s muzzle. “I can get her bridle on so you can work in peace.”

Vesemir’s eyes travel up and down his body. “No. She’s Geralt’s horse, it’s Geralt’s responsibility to look after her. Come with me, lad,” he says, throwing his pitchfork and gloves into some corner of the stable. “We’ll find something for you to do.”

Vesemir leads him to a potion’s room somewhere deep within the keep. He followed the elder Witcher through winding corridors that seemed to get darker with every corner they took. At one point Jaskier set his hand against the cold wall just to find his way. Vesemir didn’t seem to have that problem. “These need to be labelled and sorted away.”

Jaskier looks at the crate. Small vials of different coloured liquids sit inside. Between a few of them are slips of parchment. Even without asking the eldest Witcher, he can hazard a guess as to what they are. And his gut twists. “If they’re so important, why do you want me helping?”

“The lads are too heavy-handed to deal with this kind of thing,” Vesemir says simply. He levels Jaskier with a look. “And, from what I’ve seen over the last few days, you seem to be a bit lost in something to do.”

A light blush settles over his cheeks.

Vesemir waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it, lad. This is your first winter here. We’ll make something of you yet.”

 _First winter_. Implying that there will be more to come. Jaskier watches Vesemir as he wanders over to the other side of the room, hauling another crate up into his arms. Jaskier reaches inside, plucking one up. The glass is slightly frosted, but inside, a viscous black liquid sloshes around inside.

Geralt didn’t talk about the trials for a long time. Jaskier, when he was younger, used to pry and prod, always trying to get more out of the Witcher for his songs. But he understood that if Geralt glared at him in a certain way, he was to drop it.

The Trial of the Grasses was something he never brought up. Until, one day, when they were curled around each other, and Geralt was staring up at the boards of the ceiling at some inn they were staying in, he started telling Jaskier about it. How he and a handful of others waited in the hallway outside, trying to drown out the sound of screaming inside the potion’s room.

Even now, all the years later, Jaskier looks around at the stone walls and wonders how much sorrow and death have the stones stored inside of them.

When the keep was attacked, those who made the potions were killed. No more potions, no more Witchers. The vials in Jaskier’s hands are the last examples of them.

He half-expects Vesemir to watch him, to give him some direction at least. But he merely grunts out the potions’ names every time Jaskier picks up a new glass. He scribbles them down on to small pieces of parchment before tying them to the bottles.

Some of the vials are crusted over with layers of dust. Jaskier makes some effort to clean them as best as he can, before wrapping a label around the vial’s neck. They look like they’ve sat here for decades, completely undisturbed. A few nearby shelves have vials on them already, but it’s only a fraction of what’s laid out on the table. And Jaskier spots more crates in the corner fo the room, though that one seems to have sprouts of plants within it.

Vesemir empties out another crate, setting potions of the same colour to different sides of the table. They both work in silence for a while, content to just do whatever it is they’re meant to be doing.

And it isn’t lost on him how different he’s become. His younger self would be filling the silence with ramblings about something or other. Maybe Vesemir would entertain him, because from all the stories he’s heard about the Witcher from Geralt, he seems like he’d be the most welcoming of Jaskier’s rambling.

But now.

Vesemir loosens a long, tired sounding sigh. “I don’t want to...” Vesemir starts, before frowning. It’s another moment before he speaks again. “I didn’t ask the pups for help because this is all too familiar to them. I don’t want it bringing up anything.”

Jaskier stares at the eldest Witcher for a moment. “You’re worrying that they’ll remember the trials?”

Vesemir nods. He says nothing about why Jaskier would even know about the trials in the first place. “It’s a strange thing; being affected by an event that badly, that it burrows into your very being, waiting until a moment arises where it can remind you that it exists."

And Jaskier has to set the vials down on the table. His hands start to shake. He’s had a tremor ever since getting back on to his feet.

There’s a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Something happened to you, lad,” Vesemir gentles into his ear, “and it’s no right of mine to ask you what it was, or to tell you to reveal it to me. But I want you to know this; you’re safe here. You’re among those who understand.”

A groan rips its way out of Jaskier’s throat. Whatever it is that’s been plaguing him is being physical now. Vesemir pulls a chair over, helping him down on to it. He crouches down beside the bard, huffing sharply at the sharp crack of joints. He doesn’t say anything else, merely sitting with Jaskier as whatever’s chilling his blood starts to ebb away.

With every harsh breath he pulls in, the hand on his shoulder gives a soft squeeze.

How many times did Vesemir ever sit with the boys under his care? Did they look after the children who they were turning? He wants to believe that they did. That the pups of Kaer Morhen had at least one person who acted like a parent to them.

And Geralt only ever speaks highly of the elder Witcher.

When his breathing levels, Jaskier blinks. He rubs a hand over his face. “Gods, thank you,” his laugh is watery. “I’m sorry about, about that. It’s-”

“-Never be sorry for your ghosts, lad,” Vesemir says firmly, squeezing Jaskier’s shoulder one last time before setting back to work.

* * *

Geralt always asks him about his days. While the Witchers mend the castle walls and spar against each other, Jaskier slinks off to the innermost rooms of the keep, helping Vesemir with his own projects. Most of the potion’s room has been neatened up. The vials have been put away for safekeeping, while plants and ingredients for others replanted into a small greenhouse Vesemir keeps to the back of the castle.

When Jaskier climbs out of that part of the castle, the sun has already set, and the halls are dark. He meets Geralt back in their room, already changed for bed.

Tonight is the same. Jaskier slips into their room, just as a clock strikes the next hour. It’s late, but nowhere near midnight hours just yet. Geralt is sitting against the headboard of the bed, flicking through the pages of a book. When he spots Jaskier, a small smile shadows his lips. “Where have you been?”

Jaskier shrugs a shoulder. “Vesemir had a few jobs for me,” he says simply. It’s easy to say, because it’s the truth. Though, he doesn’t want to say _what_ it is he’s doing. Even mentioning the trials might have Geralt’s hackles raised.

Geralt mulls over the answer for a moment. “I haven’t seen you all day,” he says after a time, setting his book on to the bedside table.

Jaskier laughs. “You’ve seen me plenty,” he says, padding over to the wardrobe on the other side of the room.

The hearth’s lighting, with heat pluming out of it and warming his skin. He grabs one of Geralt’s shirts – only for how loosely it sits on him, it lets his back breathe – and a pair of plain breeches. When he changes by the foot of the bed, he can feel eyes on him. The mattress shifts and suddenly, gentle fingers skim along his bared shoulder.

Jaskier tries not to shiver.

The most that has happened between them is that kiss. It plays on his mind, often, when he’s alone. Or when Geralt looks at him in a certain way. His lips tingle and his chest tightens. Geralt’s hand goes to his cheek, cupping and holding. His thumb brushes against the arch of his cheekbone. Jaskier sighs, leaning into the touch. “How are you feeling?” Geralt mumbles.

Jaskier hums. “I’m alright,” he says, turning and reaching out for Geralt’s sleep shirt. The laces near the top are already loose, with some of them being totally undone. His fingers skim across his skin. “You?”

Geralt huffs a tight laugh. “I’m alright.”

It might not ever be like before. Before Falkmor, before the mountain, when they were so sure of what each other wanted. When lips would meet without hesitation, when hands went wandering and skin was set alight.

Now, Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed as Geralt leans in, but pausing just as their lips brush. Waiting. Jaskier leans forward, pressing their lips together. Warmth blooms through his skin wherever Geralt’s fingers touch – his shoulder, skimming across to his neck, just holding him gently in place as his tongue swipes across the seam of his lip.

A moan claws up his throat. Jaskier turns, clambering over the Witcher until he’s sitting comfortably in his lap, arms strung over his shoulders. Geralt’s hands find his hips, holding and keeping him close.

It’s so familiar; Geralt’s skin and muscle under his hand.

Geralt’s hands map out whatever they can find. They skim over the light fabric of his breeches, over the arches of his hips and slipping underneath his shirt. His breath catches in his throat. Breaking the kiss, Jaskier pulls him closer and rocks the together. “Please,” he breathes, kissing Geralt again.

The Witcher’s hands map his sides and his stomach. Jaskier is almost too lost in a kiss, in tongues sliding against each other, when he feels it.

Geralt’s fingers go to his back, and one of them skims the edge of a scar.

A cold blast burns through him.

He catches Geralt’s hands, not pushing them away, but not letting them continue.

His chest lifts and falls with every breath he tries to take.

“Jaskier.”

Pain flashes through his back, the muscles underneath it starting to stiffen up.

“Jaskier, listen to me.”

With every breath he pulls into his body, he can’t get enough air in. He can’t—

“Jaskier. It’s alright. You’re safe.”

When he opens his eyes, Geralt is sitting away from him, almost a league of space between them. He shuffles back against the headboard of the bed. His lungs can’t fill with enough air.

Whatever pain is wracking through him, it’s appearing on Geralt’s face. “Jaskier,” he says slowly, gently, nothing more than a whisper, “talk to me.”

“I’m alright,” he says, bringing a shaking hand to his mouth. His lips feel numb. So do his fingers. When he brushes his fingertips across his lips, he can’t feel anything. Not a trace of warmth that was there only a moment ago. “I’m alright.”

A frown shadows Geralt’s face. “No, you’re not,” he says a bit more firmly.

Jaskier’s mouth opens, but Geralt gets in before anything can come out. “Jaskier,” he says, “you’re not well.”

“I’m _fine_.” And he doesn’t mean for the words to bite, but once they’re out, Jaskier can’t stop them. He holds Geralt’s widened gaze for a moment before reaching for the thick blankets of the bed. “I’m fine,” he says, quieter, but more unsure. The more he says it, the less he finds any truth in it.

He settles on to his side, facing away from the other man. A tall lancet window, uncovered by any curtain, looks out on to a nearby stretch of forest. Jaskier stares at the tops of the trees, at how the white moonlight is trying to break through them.

The bed dips and shuffles behind him.

Jaskier folds an arm underneath his head, pillowing it. He buries his nose into the crook of his elbow. “Goodnight, Geralt,” he says, slightly proud of how his voice doesn’t waver, even when his eyes start to sting.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t startle. His senses are too sensitive for anything to catch him by surprise anymore.

But he’s so lost within his own mind, his heart jumps up his throat when Eskel and Lambert fall into chairs on either side of him in the dining hall.

“Your songbird is wallowing in front of the fire again,” Eskel says, setting his arm against the back of Geralt’s chair. He can feel Lambert doing the same, caging him in. Eskel lifts his chin. “So, what’s going on?”

“Did you two have a falling out?” Lambert asks. “Did he realise that spending a whole winter here with you was more trouble than it’s worth?”

Geralt sets his jaw. “He’s fine,” he says stiffly before standing up. The arms around him don’t move. Neither do the Witchers attached to them. Geralt glowers down at both of them. “We’re _fine_.”

Lambert locks a hand on to Geralt’s shoulder, bringing him back to the chair. “Vesemir said that if there’s something going on between you two, you’re to sort it out now,” Lambert says, a slight Vesemir-esque lilt to his voice. “He doesn’t want a whole season of whatever the fuck this is.”

Geralt growls under his breath. He stares off to some other corner of the dining room, hoping that either brother on either side of him will just slink back to wherever it was they came from.

But, probably out of sheer spite, neither budges.

The next thing out of Eskel’s mouth is something he doesn’t expect. “I heard a rumour,” he says, his voice nothing more than a rumble. Geralt keeps his eyes locked to a pattern of stones in the wall. Eskel shuffles closer. “Someone in a nearby village told me that a Witcher’s bard got caught up in a public beating.”

Geralt’s jaw bulges with how tightly he’s clenching it. His teeth almost crack with the pressure.

Eskel presses on. “Geralt, if that was _your_ bard, then you have to help him sort out whatever shit is going on inside his head.”

Lambert is quiet on the other side of him.

“If something terrible happened to him,” Eskel says firmly, “then he needs help.” And with that, both Witchers around him stand and disappear into the keep.

* * *

There’s a soft rap against the door. It isn’t Geralt. This is Geralt’s room. He would just walk in; though keep his distance from the bard. Maybe stick to the shadows along the walls as he sneaks past, heading towards the bed. Jaskier frowns slightly at the thought. Maybe the Witcher would just grab some blankets from the foot of the bed and sleep on a chaise lounge that is pushed against the opposite wall.

There’s another knock. Jaskier sets his notebook and quill down on to the bed. “Yes?”

Eskel slinks into the room. “Hey,” his voice cracks, but he clears his throat quickly. “I. It isn’t my place to, to ask. But..."

Jaskier’s stomach knots. He looks down at his lap. His fingers pick at the hem of his shirt. A fraying thread offers something for him to focus on instead of the Witcher struggling to fight his way through a sentence. “Listen, I. I know. I know about scars, and how, how shitty they can be.” A strained laugh leaves him. Jaskier looks back up in time for Eskel to gesture to his own face. “I’ve had these for decades. I’m still not used to them, to be honest. But, shit, that isn’t why I’m here.”

Jaskier regards him for a moment.

A light blush spreads over the bridge of Eskel’s nose. He holds out a hand. Caught in it, there’s a glass jar. “For your scars,” he says simply. “I, um. One of the apothecaries in Temeria makes this for me. For. For my own scars, and. It helps. With the pain.”

Jaskier looks at the jar. It’s not big, snugly fitting into the palm of his hand. But even though the lid is tightly closed, there’s a faint smell of lavender and cedarwood and tea tree.

“You don’t need a lot of it,” Eskel explains. His hands fidget in front of him, fingers picking at his nails. “It’s pretty potent stuff. But, put that on every night, and it helps temper the pain. And the look of them.”

Jaskier’s eyes burn. If he blinks, tears will start streaming down his cheeks. And he isn’t quite sure how Eskel of all people will react to him suddenly bursting into tears. But his heart is clenching in his chest. His throat threatens to close in on itself. He coughs. “Is it safe for me to use?” he rasps. “I’m not a Witcher.”

“Oh, yeah. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

There’s a moment of silence that settles between the two of them. “Listen, I,” Eskel rubs the back of his neck. “It isn’t my place to, well. He’s my brother I guess, and, you’re my friend now, and.” Eskel frowns. He’s quiet for a moment. Jaskier knows that look all too well. Someone who has the words, but they need to organised first. “Geralt means well. He’s just...He doesn’t know how to handle,” Eskel makes a general gesture between the two of them. “Something like this.”

And it’s the biggest understatement of the century, Jaskier thinks as he looks back down at the pot in his hand. The label on the front of it is worn away, but he can faintly make out the apothecary’s sigil. Temeria is easy to get to from anywhere on the Continent. And if he doesn’t need a lot of the ointment, he’s sure it’ll last him while they’re out on the Path—

Jaskier blinks. “Where’s Geralt?”

Eskel slips his hands into his pockets. “In the dining hall glowering at a wall,” he says simply.

The corners of his lip twitch, and he struggles to stop it until a light laugh suddenly bursts out of him. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

“Do you,” Eskel nods to the door, “do you want me to send him up?”

Jaskier nods. “Yes, please.”

* * *

Geralt stands outside of their door for almost five minutes, staring at how the polish is peeling and some of the wooden planks are starting to splinter. His hand hovers over the handle for a moment before, with one sure breath in and out, he steps inside.

Jaskier is perched at the foot of the bed, head turned and looking out one of the windows.

The bard lifts his hand. Clasped in his fist is a jar. Geralt can scent it from across the room. “Eskel gave it to me,” Jaskier says.

Something brief flashes across Geralt’s face. The other Witcher’s words from earlier have been stalking around his mind for the better part of an hour. When he approaches the bed, it’s slow, with every step measured.

Jaskier laughs something dry. “I’m not a startled horse, Geralt,” he says, patting the free space beside him. “Come here.”

When Geralt takes a seat beside him, he’s careful not to jostle the mattress too much. He’s never been so aware of his strength.

“I...” A small frown works its way on to Jaskier’s face, and Geralt doesn’t like it. It’s not something he ever wants to see the bard wearing. As soon as it appears, he wants to wipe it away with lips against Jaskier’s cheek or jaw or temple, with gentle touches along his sides or thighs. He wants that frown _gone_. Jaskier sighs. “I’m...struggling.”

The hearth crackling is the only thing filling the silence that sits between them. He doesn’t want to fill it. That used to be Jaskier’s job. But he casts a quick glance to the bard, and sees his eyes darting around, trying to piece thoughts and their words together.

“They’re living in my brain,” Jaskier says after a time, “and I can’t get them out. Every time my back hurts, it reminds me of it. I can hear...the townspeople talking, or the whip cracking. I can smell blood, even though I know I’m here, with you, far away from all of that.”

Geralt catches Jaskier’s little finger with his. Jaskier doesn’t pull away. “I feel like,” he breathes, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling, “I want to, to talk to you about this, but I can’t. And it isn’t you. And I’m sorry for blocking you out. I didn’t mean to. But I can’t...I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Eskel’s voice is suddenly in his head. “Something terrible happened to you,” Geralt mumbles, letting the outsides of their thighs brush. Jaskier doesn’t pull away from that either. “And when something terrible happens to us, we’re...haunted.”

A shadow of a smile flickers over Jaskier’s face. “Vesemir told me not to be sorry for my ghosts.”

Geralt nods. “He used to say that to us,” he replies. “Whenever we woke up during the night, he would sit with us and let us cry or scream or hit something. And then he’d make sure that we managed to get back to sleep.”

Jaskier blinks. His eyes are beginning to turn red. Geralt links more of their fingers together. “Whenever you’re ready, and if you feel like it, I want you to tell me about your ghosts. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. But I want you to know that I’m here.”

Jaskier sniffs, rubbing the sleeve of his shirt against his nose. When he turns to look at Geralt, the Witcher has to stop what could be a whine leaving him at the sight of a tear running down his bard’s face. His hand lifts, wanting to brush it away. Jaskier takes his hand, bringing it up to his cheek. He leans into the touch. A pained look flashes across his face.

“I want you to do something for me,” he says. “The salve that Eskel brought up, I want you to put it on me.”

Geralt nods. “Yeah,” he rasps, “I can do that.”

Jaskier hands him the jar. It’s familiar. Ever since Eskel got his own scars, he’s smelt faint traces of tea tree and herbal oils. He’s never known the source of it, until now.

Jaskier wouldn’t be able to reach where the whip got him the worst. And some primal flash of anger flashes through his core. No one will be setting hands on his bard ever again, so by the names of every god.

He unscrews the lid to the jar just as Jaskier clambers on to the bed, lying flat on his stomach and pillowing his head on to his arms. Geralt’s eyes immediately go to the bard’s back. It’s only then does it occur to him that this is the first time since leaving the inn has he seen Jaskier without a shirt on.

He never took up an offer to go the bathhouse—

Geralt swallows. The salve smeared over his palms smells like too many things at once. Tea tree sits at the roof of his mouth. “Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he says after a time, his hands hovering over the small of Jaskier’s back, where the first, faint lines start.

His eyes dart up to see the bard’s face. Jaskier looks back at him. His voice is soft. “You’d never hurt me.”

 _I did once_. The words are on his tongue. They don’t come out, only for how tightly he clamps his jaw shut in an effort to stop them.

When he first touches Jaskier’s back, he almost yanks his hands back when the body underneath him stiffens. “No, keep going,” Jaskier breathes.

Geralt is as gentle as he can be. The scars are bumps underneath his palms. With every one that he maps, it just stokes a fire in him that he should go back down the mountain, back to that village, and rip out its roots. The bard’s skin has knitted together, and most of the scabs have healed away. But left in their wake are angry, red lines that form an almost-map. Geralt stays on one side of the bard, not wanting to pin him down to the mattress. Every swipe of his hand over a new patch of interlaced scars, he winces at the sharp inhale from the body blow him.

When enough of the salve covers Jaskier’s back, Geralt sets the jar on to the bedside table. “That should do it,” he says, padding over to a washbasin to rinse his hands.

Jaskier hasn’t moved. Outside, a few flecks of snow patter against the windowpane. Geralt grabs one of his older shirts; one that has been worn-out and resewn one too many times. He brings it over to the bed. “Do you want this?” he holds up the shirt. “It’ll get cold when the fire goes out.”

Jaskier sighs into the crook of his arm. “I don’t need it,” he mumbles.

An argument is about to leave him, that even if a small draft slips in through a crack in the walls, Jaskier is _not_ to complain about his back seizing up—

“I’ll have you to keep me warm.”

Geralt stares at Jaskier for a moment. He tosses the shirt on to some stretch of floor, slipping underneath the sheets and arranging most of them around Jaskier. He’s careful about moving the bard too much or too quickly, but with how heavily he’s beginning to breathe, Geralt knows that he’ll slip under sleep soon.

Geralt shuffles closer, lying on his back and helping Jaskier settle against his side; his head pillowed on Geralt’s chest, his fingers curled over his heart.

Warmth blooms through his chest, coiling through his veins and bones all throughout the rest of him. Geralt’s fingertips trail soft patterns across the expanse of his bard’s shoulder blades. The touch is light enough to help Jaskier slip under. Geralt can feel him grow heavier and heavier against him, with his breath being occasional deep puffs across his chest. He presses a kiss to the crown of Jaskier’s head. “Goodnight, Jaskier."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.
> 
> (Maybe. someday, I'll work out how to end fics. But today isn't that day.)
> 
> (This isn't beta read. If there are any mistakes, just...ignore them. It's 2:32 am. And my eyes hurt.)

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs;   
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense) | agoddamngoodshot (writing)
> 
> twitter;   
> @better_marksman
> 
> TUMBLRS  
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense) | agoodgoddamnshot (writings)
> 
> Comments & Kudos gladly appreciated!


End file.
